In the French embassy in Pera the ambassador would be penning his report. Word by word the case against Yashim would form and swell, in the smoothest diplomatic style: accusing no one, implying much.
There was a tap on the door. Yashim frowned. “Elvan?” He called, not taking his eyes off the pan.
He heard the click of the latch and felt a prickling at the back of his neck.
Very carefully he set the pan aside. He glanced at the door, slowly swinging inward, then at the knife on the block.
“Who’s that?” he called. “Who’s there?”
59
MADAME Mavrogordato’s face was set. At the opposite end of the long table, Monsieur Mavrogordato cast her a furtive glance and helped himself to a dish of lamb. Madame Mavrogordato watched the footman place the dish on the side table.
“You may remove Alexander’s setting, Dmitri. When he comes in, he can eat in the kitchen. And tell him that his father wants to see him.”
“Yes, madame.”
Dmitri withdrew. Mavrogordato picked up his knife and fork.
“So!” Her voice was like a milled edge.
His hands froze in midair.
“So! You can eat!”
“We have to eat, Christina, or we’ll die,” said Mavrogordato unhappily. His knife wavered uncertainly over the lamb.
Madame Mavrogordato stared him down. “Sometimes, Monsieur Mavrogordato, one must choose between disgrace and death.”
“Now, Christina, please…” He put the knife and fork down gently by his plate.
“Disgrace, Monsieur Mavrogordato,” she intoned. “This time I want you to speak to Alexander. If he carries on in this way, he will earn a reputation for himself.”
Mavrogordato nodded.
“A reputation, Monsieur Mavrogordato. And the Ypsilanti girl is almost seventeen.”
Mavrogordato nodded.
“We cannot allow the match to fail. The Ypsilanti may not be so rich, but they have—” Her head quivered gently. She could not quite bring herself to say the word.
Mavrogordato nodded again. He blinked. After a pause he picked up his knife and fork. “A strange fellow came to see me today,” he said casually.
Madame Mavrogordato did not reply.
“He—ah—was called Yashim. I believe he was a eunuch.”
Five minutes later, when Mavrogordato’s lamb had congealed on the plate, he wished he hadn’t changed the subject, after all.
60
YASHIM picked up the knife and took a few steps toward the swinging door.
A woman was standing in the doorway. She wore a blue traveling cloak edged with satin, its hood drawn up to hide her face. A foreigner. Her hands were loosely clasped in front of her. A small carpetbag with a leather handle lay on the floor beside her.
Yashim’s fingers relaxed. He took a step back.
The woman reached up with both hands and pulled back the hood. Brown curls tumbled around her shoulders and a pair of steady brown eyes met his.
“You are Yashim efendi,
Her voice was soft and light. Yashim nodded, unable to speak.
“
Yashim felt the blood pounding in his ears. He heard himself say,
Yashim gestured to the sofa.
Madame Lefevre glanced around his apartment, and Yashim noticed how tall she was, almost his own height. She crossed the room with long-legged grace, smoothed her cloak behind her, and sat down on the edge of the divan. With a shake of her head she ran a hand under her curls to free them from the collar of her cloak. Beneath it
